Chapter Text
40 Days
Jacob Lash has never been a spiritual guy. He puts his faith in himself, in the things he can accomplish with his own two hands, and not much else. If he had to thank a god or the universe or whatever for anything, it would be for his looks and the bald-headed bastard between his legs — and even those things, he could probably thank his father for if he ever met the guy. Being able to beat the shit out of people? That’s hard work nobody but Lash gets to claim credit for. So it’s a shock when a Patron starts chatting him up in his sleep.
A shock, but not a surprise. Sounds like this Ritual’s gonna require some violence, so of course the Patron wants to recruit the foremost expert in skull-cracking.
He’s less interested in working on a team, but even the Lash can’t be everywhere in the city at once. He just hopes these jokers are half as good as he is.
28 Days
A month before the Maelstrom, Lash is met at the foot of a nondescript apartment building by an absolute freak in a tattered yellow robe. Their lips are dry and flaking, their eyes sunken, with yellow greasepaint smeared in wild symbols all over skin that’s begging to see the sun again. In short, they’re fucking creepy, and they’re giving Lash second, third, and eighteenth thoughts about joining this Ritual.
But the Hidden King promised him all he’s ever wanted with a gravity it’s impossible to ignore. Lash isn’t about to turn tail because some sewer-dwelling uggo forgot their Chap Stick.
The cultist escorts him to the elevator but thankfully lets him ride alone to the top of the building. He enters the Amber Hand’s hideout to the tune of an immediate, drawn out groan.
Funny he was just thinking about sewer-dwellers, because the noise came from that monkey thing from the Tunnel Rats. Frill? Drill? Whatever. He likes to bet at the Bear Pit, abscond with the occasional crate Lash sets aside down at the shipyard, and still pretend he’s better than the Lash.
“You’re late,” Grill says.
“Fashionably late.”
A squeakier voice says, “That’s what we’re calling fashion these days? That barely counts as a shirt.” A purple-haired woman giggles from her perch on the arm of a leather sofa, with a giant, sparkly horn jutting from her forehead in one of the goofier displays of magic body modification he’s seen. She’s tattooed all over, but it doesn’t make her look like any more of a threat. She’s pretty enough that the Lash opens his mouth to dazzle her with his wit when she says, “Wait, I know you.”
“Everybody knows the Lash,” he says, puffing out his chest.
“Yeah, you’re the guy who beat the shit outta Larry.” She doesn’t sound impressed, which might be because this Larry was so uninspiring that Lash can’t remember who she’s talking about.
“The Lash?” Another woman chirps, finally looking up from her book. She’s so dorky it makes Violet here look positively lethal. What has he gotten himself into? “Oh my gosh. I’ve seen the posters!” On the other hand, maybe he shouldn’t underestimate someone with such good taste.
“You ever been to a fight?” he asks.
“Oh, no. It seems like… a lot? I don’t know if I could watch,” she says.
“It is a gruesome battle royale. I hear some people watch through their fingers. I can get you in for free if you ever wanna try. Could be enlightening.”
“Or,” Sparkles says, “you could come out to Coney. That could be free too, with less bloodshed. I mean, usually, anyway. As long as Skeeter hasn’t hit the sauce again.” Ginger has turned paler than before, so Twinkle hits her with a bright smile. “Don’t worry. He never aims at the audience.”
“Uh-huh,” Lash says, casting about for anyone else to talk to. Over by the window is something very green.
Two black dots float in the green slime sphere that counts as its head. “Hello,” it says in a high, childlike voice. “I hear you like to punch people?”
“That makes it sound like I just go around breaking noses left and right. No, I punch people for money.” Somehow, he’s not sure that sounds better. “Prize money. And glory. And the adoration of the masses.”
“That sounds fun,” it says, but it doesn’t sound so sure. “I’m Viscous.”
“I probably won’t remember that,” he warns them.
“That’s okay. It’s for your benefit more than mine. Human mouths can’t say my real name.”
“Yeah, whew. Already lost me, Gooey.”
Of the teammates he’s met, Celeste is the prettiest and probably the least interested in men. Lash is good at spotting these things, mostly because it’s so rare someone isn’t struck dumb by his impossible beauty. Paige almost definitely likes men, and she probably likes them with muscles, but she also likes books so much that she’s reading in a group setting, which is a real turnoff. Viscous… well, maybe if he’s feeling adventurous. He dismisses the mole and monkey out of hand.
The fireplace and that nice looking leather sofa deserve his attention more than any of his fellow ritualists. Lash only realizes someone else is there when he nearly sits on them.
Tucked into the corner of the couch is some vagrant in a tattered coat and scarf. They blink at him in surprise, and he’s briefly stupefied by how much that face does not belong with that bird’s nest hair. Their eyes are sullen and lined with exhaustion, but they’re also big and dark with a feathery fan of black lashes. Even the irritated pinch of their mouth can’t hide the perfect curve of a Cupid’s bow or the pout of their lips.
“The Lash did not see you there.”
“I’d hope not,” they say dryly. Their voice is low and soft, traveling from eardrums to groin in one fluid motion. All thoughts of his other teammates vanish. If he’s sleeping with any of them, this is the one.
“It’s your lucky day. A lot of people would kill to get smashed by the Lash.”
Their mouth twitches, but he probably only notices because he’s still staring at it. “I’ll work on my gratitude.”
They stare at him flatly until he feels compelled to give them some space — but only so much. They can’t be allowed to forget him. When that doesn’t satisfy, they move to a nearby armchair, where they hunch in like they’re trying to become one with the leather. Lash doesn’t mind; it only gives him a better view of their face.
25 Days
They are strongly encouraged to spend their time at the hideout whenever possible, which in Lash’s case mostly means late afternoon to evening. He’d much rather be at the bar or the gym, but he can make sacrifices.
Not too many sacrifices, though. “You think these freaky cultists could get a punching bag in here?” Lash asks aloud.
The cultists in question mostly lurk unseen, but if you need something, they’ll skulk out of absolutely nowhere in their dorky robes and the weird symbols painted onto their bodies. Lash does not enjoy talking to them directly. He’s not afraid, but caution is important sometimes, especially when they’re the kind of people painting their faces and hiding in shadows and raving about elder gods.
Within the hour, they’re honoring his request. In the big storeroom, there’s a solid looking heavy bag and a speed bag, which he didn’t even have to specify. Must be fans.
It pays off right away. Pocket sits near the bottom of a rolling staircase, chin in hand as they pretend to look past him.
Lash lets them look for a while before he asks, “Like what you see, doll face?”
They blink those big brown eyes at him. “Are you talking to me?”
He stops the bag from swinging. The last thing he wants is to get hit with it when he’s trying to put the moves on somebody. “Who else?”
“I don’t know. Someone who’d like being called that?” They pause, looking around. “So not anyone here, actually.”
“What would you prefer then?” He moves closer. They can look as unimpressed as they want, but he is Jacob Lash, over six feet of spectacularly sculpted muscle topped off by this chiseled face and perfect hair, with a fine sheen of clean sweat to make the skin shine. They’re not gonna look away again. “Honey? Sweetheart? Baby?”
They stare right into his eyes like they’re hypnotized — or afraid to look any lower for fear of soaking the staircase or popping a boner or whatever happens between their legs. “My name is Pocket. Let’s stick with that.” They rise to their feet then, eyes widening when they have to keep looking up even after they’re standing on the bottom stair. They can say what they like; their pink cheeks speak volumes.
“Whatever you say, Pocket,” Lash says with a smile, which he’s been told many times is one of his best traits. Even if that’s basically like trying to decide what’s your favorite million bucks, he’ll always take a compliment.
They can’t take their eyes off him even when they back away. They stumble into poor Paige, whose active imagination still can’t prepare her for the sheer animal magnetism between him and Pocket.
19 Days
They’re on that couch again, their legs tucked up beside them this time. They have a book in hand, which is just begging for someone to rescue them from the boredom.
Lash pauses at the end of the sofa while a vision of Pocket begging takes a quick jog around his brain. Before the lap is finished, either his irrepressible aura or his looming shadow alert them to his presence. Their gaze traces up his body before they find his eyes. Entirely accidental, they’d love you to believe. Lash takes that as invitation enough.
“So I was thinking,” he says, flopping onto the couch beside them.
“That’s new.”
“I— what?”
Pocket doesn’t answer, only staring innocently at him. He’s trying to get close, but it seems they have manners. They lean into the arm of the couch to make space for him. “What do you want, Lash?”
“Why Pocket?”
It’s their turn to ask, “What?”
“You know. Did your parents name you that? Probably not, right? So why Pocket?”
It seems he’s caught them off guard this time, because they give him a proper answer. “It’s… a joke? I guess?” Or sort of a proper answer, anyway. Point is they’re still talking.
“Okay. So what’s the joke?” They stare at him like they’re expecting this to be a trap of some kind, as if the Lash can’t sincerely ask a person why they’d name themself something stupid or accept a bad nickname. “Is it, like, a sex thing?”
“How would it even be— no, don’t answer that. No, it’s not a sex thing.” Protest all they like; the corner of their mouth keeps twitching upward. They want to laugh so bad.
“Excuse me,” Lash sing-songs. “The Lash did not mean to offend your delicate sensibilities.”
“I’m not offended,” they say, sounding pretty aggrieved if you ask Lash. “‘Is it a sex thing?’” they repeat sarcastically. “Is the name ‘Lash’ a sex thing?”
They seem to realize their mistake as soon as it’s out of their mouth. They’re staring at the ceiling when he asks, “Do you want it to be a sex thing?” which means they miss his bewitching wink.
They make an incomprehensible noise, followed by a full body twitch. Are they choking? He’s prepared to impress them by saving their life, but they’re too slow to cover the sudden snort with their hand.
“Is that a smile I see?” Lash asks. “I didn’t know you had it in you.”
“I’m just full of surprises.”
“The Lash enjoys a good surprise.” He stretches, draping both arms across the back of the sofa. If one of those happens to be right behind Pocket, that’s just an accident.
“Does this normally work for you?” they ask. They gesture up and down his body with the book. It’s closed now, which is far more important than any of the words coming out of their mouth.
“Everybody falls for the Lash eventually.” He smiles at them, all teeth.
Their own fades as quickly as it appeared. “Yeah, I bet everybody loves being told they’re another notch in your belt.”
“If you wanna be special, don’t worry,” he says, expertly reading through the lines. “The Lash’s attention makes you special.”
Pocket sighs. “The only thing I want from the Lash is for him not to screw up this ritual. I’m not looking for anything else.”
They leave him there, and even with the fire crackling a few feet away, the room feels chillier. “The Lash loves when they play hard to get,” he says, too late for them to hear. Stubbornly, he spreads out on the empty sofa, making a face at the creepy painting over the mantle.
17 Days
Celeste juggles. This is not surprising to anyone. The surprise is that she’s teaching Pocket how.
She summons three sparkling purple balls, and she starts them out slow. They’re a quick study, which Lash would prefer not to know, since he’s still annoyed they left him high and dry the other day. But it’s hard to look away when they’re laughing with her and the others.
He got them to laugh first, but that was before they resorted to the cold shoulder. They’ll come around. In the meantime, all he can think about is how many things he’d do if he got them alone. It’s a good strategy they’ve got going on; if they want to keep his attention, making him work for it is one way to assure it.
Not that he wants more than one night, really. The Lash is a free spirit. He doesn’t like to be tied down.
“You look lonely,” says Viscous, squelching onto the seat beside him.
“I’m not,” Lash says.
“Because I’m here now.”
“Sure, Slimy,” he murmurs, distracted by the way Paige’s eyes glint in Pocket’s direction every time they laugh. The ball falls at their feet. Even failure doesn’t break their spirit.
“Do you want to juggle?” Viscous asks him. “I have goo.”
“You could not pay me to juggle your goo.”
“Oh,” Viscous says, deflating. “I see now why nobody likes you.”
Lash sighs, finally tearing his eyes away from the others. “People love the Lash. If they don’t know what to do about their jealousy, that’s their problem, not mine.”
“I’m not jealous of you.”
“That’s because you’re new here.”
“Do you think if I stayed on the surface I would think you were nice?”
“I’m so nice.”
“That’s not what they say,” says Viscous.
The ‘they’ could be the group or it could be Pocket, but Lash chooses to believe it’s a general sort of they, that whole population of people who don’t understand shit about him. Pocket is definitely not confiding in Viscous, telling him Lash isn’t nice or that they don’t like him. They wouldn’t resort to sabotaging him like that.
“Hey, Goo Boy, why don’t you go play with your other friends? I’m kinda busy here.”
“You don’t look busy.”
“Well, I am.” Lash sighs, clenching a fist so he doesn’t rub at his face instead. “I’ve got my own thing going on. I’m sure they’d love to have you over there though.”
“If you say so! Have fun sitting by yourself!” He leaves Lash in peace, wobbling with every step like a jello mold.
15 Days
Everyone else gets on like a house on fire, and Lash is so bored with their nicey-nice bullshit. He shows up to their strategy meetings. He listens while they run down the same thing they’ve been talking about for two weeks now. Maybe he makes eye contact with Pocket or maybe they avoid it at all costs, because they’re still playing that game with him.
It’s working, kind of. He hasn’t gotten laid since he chose to focus on this particular conquest. He’s sort of itchy because of it — in the restless way, not in the crotch critters way, thank you very much — and he keeps finding his gaze drawn to their stupid, pouty, pink mouth. Maybe he wouldn’t be in this boat if they could suffer the cultists’ chapped lip situation. It’s obnoxious. They’re obnoxious.
“What do you think?” Paige asks. She’s across from him and an inch or two too close to Pocket, which could be an accident or could be something she’s doing on purpose. He’s resting his chin in his hand. It would be embarrassing for someone to think he was daydreaming or whatever while looking at Pocket. He was not doing that, but in case someone gets the wrong impression, he leans back in his chair.
“You’re gonna have to repeat that. The Lash wasn’t listening.”
“We were talking about a buddy system. You know, nobody goes out alone. Who do you think you’d like to work with?”
There’s an obvious answer here, but he’s not gonna make it that easy. “The Lash can do his thing with anyone. Doesn’t matter.”
Paige sighs. “Maybe you think you’re being laid back and easy to work with, but it’s actually harder if you don’t give an answer.”
“The Lash is not concerned with the convenience of mere mortals. It doesn’t matter,” he says again. “Point him at an enemy, the Lash will take ’em down.”
She sighs louder like he didn’t hear it the first time. “Still not helpful. So we’ll pair off and then whoever’s left can work with the Lash, since he’s so adaptable.”
The rest of them have all become friends. They don’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings, so it’s a mess watching them dance around deciding how to divvy up the responsibility. Lash zones out again, even though it’s his opinion that they’re not going to have enough firepower between them. He’s going to be picking up slack for everybody.
He’s staring at the ceiling when a cold, goopy finger pokes his arm. “They asked you a question,” Viscous says politely.
“The Lash was thinking about it. But fine, uh, repeat it. So I can think some more.”
Paige asks, “Are you fine working with Pocket? Or do we need to figure out something else?”
He refuses to look at Pocket again. He doesn’t need to get distracted by their soggy cat eyes. “Sure. Told you anything works.”
“Great,” Paige chirps. “Then you two can talk strategy, and I will be way over there if you need me!” She excuses herself, and for the first time in days, Lash is left alone with Pocket.
“Couldn’t keep away, could you?” he asks.
“Were you paying any attention?” they ask.
“Uhh…” he starts, trying to reflect back on any clues. The best he’s got is the sight of them all clustering together before announcing their decision.
“We drew straws,” they clarify. “One in five chance. Lucky me.”
“One in six, right?”
“Mo and Krill drew together. That’s a package deal.”
“Sounds like you wanted better odds of working with the Lash. You ever think about how they, you know,” Lash makes a circle with one hand and pokes his other index finger through it a few times.
Pocket’s face scrunches up, which is adorable, which is annoying. “I absolutely do not think about that, no.”
“Well, now I’m thinking about it.”
“And whose fault is that?” they ask.
“Theirs, really.”
Pocket slumps into their chair with a dramatic sound. “Whatever. We need to talk strategy.”
“Don’t need to overthink it.”
“Okay. But we need some kind of plan. An outline, at least.”
“You haven’t even shown what you can do,” Lash says.
Pocket hesitates, then says, “Fair enough. You’re right.” They don’t have to make that last part sound so much like a question. Anyone else might feel disrespected. They’re lucky Lash’s skin is so thick. “Come on then.”
They lead him through the big storeroom and take the teleporter to the nearby alley. The gun is self-explanatory; Lash just hopes they know how to use it.
The suitcase, though. That shit’s weird.
“So I… can get into it? If I need to.”
“Good to know you’re flexible,” Lash says approvingly.
“It’s not a normal suitcase,” Pocket explains like they didn’t hear it.
“Kinda got that part when you showed off the frogs.” He shrugs. “Doesn’t mean getting in there would be easy for everyone.”
“Careful. That’s almost a real compliment.”
“They’re all real.”
“I meant the kind that isn’t innuendo.”
Lash shrugs again. “Doesn’t make them insults. A double entendre is double the compliment.”
“You don’t get to decide what I take as a compliment.”
“God, you’re no fun.” In the moment, Lash even almost means it.
“So I’ve been told.” They snap the suitcase shut. “So the other thing, I can’t show you. It’s… I hope I don’t have to use it. But if I do, it’s kind of… slimy. I see you making that face, and it’s not like that. Come on.” Lash snickers, and Pocket levels an irritated stare at him, as if he can’t see how red their cheeks are getting. “I mean be serious. It’s really dangerous.”
“Fine, what is it?”
“An affliction. The frogs will make them sick. So sick they won’t be able to fight, hopefully.”
“Frog plague. What’s next? Murdering firstborns?”
He’s expecting them to be impressed by his clever literary reference, because that seems like the kind of lame thing they’d be into. He’s not expecting them to turn white like they’ve seen a ghost. “What did you say?”
“You know, frogs, locusts, rivers of blood, killing all the firstborns. It’s all very Exodus.”
“Oh,” they say. “Right. Yeah, funny.” They’re not laughing though. “I don’t think they’re related.”
If anyone else were to consult him, he’d say that what’s wrong with Pocket is that they’re not sleeping with him or even flirting at the moment. But this seems like one of those instances where asking will score him some brownie points, so he does. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing.” They look around, twitchy. Lash can almost see their skin crawling from here. “I’m just nervous about the Ritual, I guess.”
“Aw, don’t worry. I’ll watch your back.” He means it too, and not even in the dirty way. That bulky overcoat hides far too much.
“You,” they repeat, almost like it’s a question.
“Yep. I’ve got you.” He takes the opportunity to bask in their attention now that they’re not pretending to hate him. He flexes one giant bicep. “And the Lash doesn’t lose.”
“Call me crazy, but I almost believe you.” Their smile is small and wry, but he’ll take it.
11 Days
Lash’s last fight before the Ritual, and they had to go right for the money maker. Don’t they know he’s trying something here?
Anybody who fights Lash is supposed to avoid the face; it’s in his rider. Unfortunately, Mendoza’s got an axe to grind and way more sway than some piece of paper. If Mendoza tells Pitbull Pryce to fight dirty, he’ll fight dirty. Too bad for Pryce that Lash fights to win every time.
The face thing is pretty shitty though.
He stumbles into the hideout with a lingering scrape on his cheek and a split lip. When the others ask, he mutters rote things like “hazard of the job” and “you should see the other guy,” which pacifies them.
Not Pocket, though. Pocket looks at his face long enough that Lash wants to squirm. Then they reach a tentative hand up. They stop before they touch, close enough that he can feel the heat from their skin radiating toward his cheek.
“What happened?”
Lash tongues at the cut in his lip, knowing it’s gonna make it take longer to heal. “Some people can’t stand to see a beautiful face, so they gotta try to take it away.”
“I don’t know. It kinda suits you.” They look surprised by their own words, as surprised as Lash feels.
He wants to cheer. Instead he smirks. “You offering to kiss it and make it better? If we take this somewhere private, I got a scar that could use some attention.”
Their brow crinkles, and the warmth of their hand disappears before they ever actually touch him. “I don’t think I followed that one.”
“You know, when I was a baby, the rabbi—” He makes a snip-snip motion with his fingers.
“Oh, God.” Their nose wrinkles, and now they’re backing away. “I forgot who I was talking to. Won’t happen again.”
7 Days
The Ritual is coming, blah blah. Everybody knows that. But knowing and waiting around for it are two different things. There are only so many drills they can run, only so many preparations they can make.
He’s bored enough that he’s begun reading. It’s not for fun, though. It’s research. The book is the last thing Pocket read, which was lent to them by Paige, so he supposes Le Morte d’Arthur is just gonna make the rounds of the whole hideout at this point. Maybe one of those cultists will read it next.
“I thought there’d be more action in this,” he says, having skimmed through too much tedious chivalry already. “Where’s the good stuff?”
Paige looks up from her own book. “Try Sir Gawain and the Green Knight.”
She’s been insulting enough before that he’s suspicious. “I did try that one. Boring.”
“No? The themes about being trapped by reputation didn’t appeal to you?”
Having skimmed too quickly to bother with things like themes or subtext, Lash resorts to pulling a face at her. “The Lash’s reputation is as dazzling as his wit. Not my fault if some people can’t handle it.”
Before she can insult him again or press one of her other books on him, Pocket interjects. They sit on the same couch as Lash, which feels like a small victory even if they have left too much space between themself and the Lash. “What about a mystery instead?”
“Too easy. The Lash will solve it in ten pages,” he answers.
They shake their head, but that tiny smile is back, tucked into the corner of their mouth just for him. “I’m sure the Lash has never fallen for a red herring,” they say.
“The Lash hates fish, actually.”
Pocket’s smirk grows. “So what would the Lash find entertaining?”
He glances at the huge clock over the elevator. “There’s gonna be a boxing match on the radio soon.”
“I don’t think I’ve listened to one,” Pocket looks thoughtful, “ever, actually.”
“Tonight should be a good one. Butler’s an idiot after all those blows to the head, and he’s probably only got, like, three of his original teeth, but he still hits like a truck. My money’s on Hachim, though. Everything he does is so clean. Nothing’s ever wasted. Not that either could hold a candle to the Lash, obviously,” he reassures them.
“Obviously,” Pocket says like they’re distracted. Before he can draw their attention back in, they say, “You really love fighting, don’t you?”
“You forget who you’re talking to again?”
“No, I mean you love all of it, not just winning. Everything. The whole sport.” They say it like they’ve discovered something truly profound, which almost makes him ask if they’ve taken any blows to the head recently. He gets distracted wondering whose ass he’d have to kick if they actually answered yes. “It’s…” they trail off and clear their throat, leaving him hanging.
With Paige’s permission, they retrieve the sleek Emerson off the desk wedged under the staircase and come back to him. Maybe it’s only his imagination, but they sit closer on the couch this time.
The radio glows when it clicks on, one of those weird magic powered types that doesn’t need to be plugged in. He still has to turn the dial until he finds the right station.
They’re starting at the handshake, which means their timing is almost perfect. Lash leans forward to lock in once the blow-for-blow starts. Pocket lights a cigarette beside him, but they lean in too. The radio announcer describes the start of the fight, the jabs taken as each boxer feels out the other.
“I’m not sure I get what’s going on,” says Paige, who Lash nearly forgot was there.
“I can sort of follow,” Pocket says. “But maybe I’m just guessing at it.”
“No, you’ll get it. It’s easy.” In a fit of inspiration, Lash pushes the whole table off to the side and lets the radio act as choreographer. Shadowboxing for both sides isn’t easy, but he’s never backed down from a challenge, especially not one that tests his prowess in combat.
Paige giggles as he shuffles close to her on a quick jab-hook combo from Butler. He feels like a little boy again, quick on his feet as he boxes along to the radio while his mom cooks a late supper. Only this time, his delighted audience isn’t just the mother who loves him overbearingly and unconditionally. Pocket finally cracks a real smile when Lash-as-Butler stumbles back from a nasty counterpunch from Lash-as-Hachim.
He didn’t think pretending to lose would be the thing that won them over, but he’s willing to do a few stupid things now and again in the name of lust. He hits the floor for the KO, winking at Pocket.
“Help me up,” he says.
They stand over him, hands loose at their sides and distinctly not reaching for him. “I don’t trust you like that.”
Considering he was planning to pull them down to the floor, he can’t even be offended by their suspicion. “Smart,” he says. They laugh, and his heart batters his chest and his ribs squeeze tight, and he wonders if he winded himself landing on his back like that.